


Pageantry

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Implied Relationships, Incest, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The United Kingdom is a domain peopled by Tremere antitribu, ruled over by a Lasombra, and invested with, quite possibly, the most active Kiasyd to ever have lived.  All of which makes being a Tzimisce rather pedestrian by comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pageantry

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Vampire: the Masquerade belongs to White Wolf Publishing.

John doesn’t know what’s worse, that the invitation comes signed on the behalf of the Voivode of Voivodes or that he’s willing to put money on the fact that the nominal head of their clan is still in torpor. They’ve gone to the trouble of sending careful calligraphy invitations written on parchment that’s definitely made of skin, signed in ink mixed with blood. Unfortunately, no amount of obfuscation will hide the fact that it’s the skin of some unfortunate bovine and that the blood most definitely isn’t human at all. In fact, to John’s enhanced senses, it smells like some revenant just bled all over the page. Which is an out. He can call it affront to the codes of civility that his clan live by and be done with it. His writing “No. Fuck off.” in permanent marker across the page before cramming it into a jiffy bag, addressed in biro, is merely a measure of just how affronted he is at the lack of correct protocol.

 

Two nights later, he’s down in the cadaver lab waiting for Sherlock and Molly to finish up whatever it is that they’re whispering to each other in some intelligible language, when Mike accosts him.

“Look, Mike, I get that- actually no, I don’t. I’m not travelling half way across Europe to have neonates gawp at me.”  
“It’s in Cologne this year.”  
“You go if you want. I’m not budging.”  
“Is that an official... well...”  
“God, no. I wouldn’t bother going, why would I make someone else?”

Across the other side of the room the Kiasyd whispering ceases abruptly. Sherlock’s gaze rests pointedly on John. John sighs. They do say that the curse of Cain does strange things to people and certainly, John knows full well that it does, but what it seems to have done to Sherlock specifically is positively unheard of. The Embrace infused Lestrade with a far calmer view of life, it made Mycroft more visibly dangerous, and with Sherlock, it seems, bizarrely, to have given him a yen for politics that he never possessed in mortal life.

“Alright, fine.” John draws in a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. “By right of blood and conquest, as territorial commander of Albion, I, John Watson, Scourge of the East, Lord of whatever the fuck they’ve made me lord of this time, _forbid_ the attendance of his mockery of a conclave that’s going on in Cologne. On pain of final death.”  
Mike eyes John nervously. “Right then. I’ll... just get back to my rounds then.”

Molly whispers something but Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. She wrinkles her nose at him but follows Mike out of the lab nevertheless.

“Are we done here?” John shoves his hands into his pockets.  
Sherlock smiles, widely.  
“Oh, what? What now? How can it possibly help that I’ve forbidden everyone from going?”  
“It doesn’t help me.” Sherlock’s voice, even at regular volume these days, retains a certain whispering softness to it.  
“Right. Mycroft?”

Sherlock comes to stand in front of John and bends to whisper into his ear. Luckily, John recognises the signs and before Sherlock can actually say anything, John’s clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t tell me then.”

Sherlock’s tongue flickers across John’s palm, cold and damp, but it’s a damn sight better than getting an earful of whatever insanity inducing riddle Sherlock’s just come up with.

 

They spend the journey to the hotel, John isn’t sure which one and hasn’t been bothered enough to find out, where Mycroft is holding court, in silence. They don’t travel by taxi anymore, though they could if Sherlock was prepared to make the effort. John can pass as mortal easily enough but Sherlock’s eyes give him away, and he refuses to do anything to hide them. Kiasyd eyes, complete black without iris or sclera. Nowadays, Sherlock is content to be ferried about by Mycroft’s staff in sleek, black, limousines at any rate. In fact, he made a journey to a library in the north east relatively recently and had been provided with a motorcade of armed bodyguards, Canite and ghoul, both. It was excessive, to John’s mind, but to Sherlock it would have been necessary, as a demonstration of his brother’s political power. Mycroft Holmes rules over this independent territory, was the message.

John stares out of the tinted windows moodily. The inexpertly crafted invitation to a clan conclave annoys him more than he expected it to. If the old clan can’t even manage to reign in this sort of nonsense there’s really very little hope for the future. There have been rumours too, of Tremere encroachment into their traditional home. Lestrade had verified that the lands were populated with Tremere spies already, and worst still, had hinted that one of the great revenant families were looking to cede from their old kinship with the Tzimisce completely. It takes Sherlock’s, now smaller, hand placed over his to shake John from his thoughts, and make him realise that his own hands have warped into the familiar claws of his war form in irritation.

“You’ve corrupted the soil.” Sherlock says, letting go of John’s hand and turning again to face the window.

Which is true. All of the United Kingdom is his. The earth itself responds to his touch, even more so than it would to a Tzimisce normally. Lestrade had explained it away as being the oldest sort of magic, the sort that tied a king to the land and made it reflect his emotional and mental state. In theory then, because John has risked his life for his country and shed his own blood for love it, the very earth itself responds. How far that reach extends exactly, hasn’t been measured, but John knows for certain that by rights he can at least call all England his domain. A domain peopled by Tremere antitribu, though the greater clan Tremere like to pretend otherwise, ruled over by a Lasombra prince, though the Ventrue like to pretend that he’s one of theirs instead, and invested with, quite possibly, the most active Kiasyd to ever have lived.

Sherlock is far too active for a Kiasyd. Even Molly can spend at least a fortnight in her haven reading without disruption. Even Lestrade can spend at least three or four days doing whatever it is that the Order of Hermes does with that summoning circle. Even Mycroft, technically prince of London, de facto ruler of the British Isles, can sit idle for a night or two. Sherlock on the other hand seems to be forever in motion, constantly researching, plotting or just plain interfering directly in everything.

“They think you’ve corrupted Mycroft. The Ventrue, I mean.”  
“It lets them believe that he’s one of theirs.”  
“Yeah. How does that even work? His reflection would give him away.”  
“Fae trickery.”  
“Right. So they’re honestly arguing that you’ve just... done something to the mirrors? Why would you even bother?”  
“ _Patrician_ conceit.” Sherlock hisses the nickname with distinct malice.

John isn’t entirely sure why Sherlock holds such hatred for the Ventrue but it’s probably something to do with Mycroft. Britain is an independent territory anyway. The seas swarm with Lasombra as the Mediterranean once did, the Order of Hermes flourishes within the police force and feeds directly into clan Tremere and elder Tzimisce are welcomed readily. The steady rise of Lasombra in the Navy doesn’t concern John too much: the Army is well enough populated by his own. Lestrade has been the Tremere Regent for far too long than he ought, and shows no sign of being ousted, so much so that the rest of his clan have to pretend that he’s been granted special dispensation from the elders to remain in England, just to save face. Albion is stable or at least as stable as vampire territories get these days.

 

Technically, when a Camarilla prince holds court it ought to be termed Elysium, where no vampire is permitted to harm another, but Mycroft isn’t a Camarilla prince, and probably only makes nominal gestures at being Sabbat. Regardless of what it’s called, the night will consist of posturing, jockeying for position and other things that don’t interest John in the slightest. Granted, he makes a point not to attend often but every once in a while he feels obliged to go show his face, even if all that does is trigger gossip about his command of Vicissitude. Occasionally, when Mycroft is feeling whimsical enough, the grand gathering is a masquerade ball, and on those occasions John takes great delight in using Sherlock as a canvas on which to display his skills. Last time, with Mycroft being particularly indulgent, he’d fleshcrafted the pair of them into identical, inhuman, twins, which had horrified the more Camarilla-minded in attendance. The Toreador, on the other hand, had gushed over his creative genius for the next month or so.

Tonight, unfortunately, is a standard cocktail party sort of event and there’ll be no room for anything particularly fantastical. John does have plans, for the next masquerade at least, to see if he can craft a pair of fairy wings to stick to Sherlock’s back. Wings that are slightly torn and splattered with blood, as befitting a Kiasyd. At the moment though, all he can do is sip from his champagne flute of vitae and try not to look too bored. Scanning the crowd he recognises most faces but isn’t particularly motivated to engage with any of them. Mrs Hudson is here of course, surrounded by a small group of admirers. Admirers, John notes, who are almost entirely Toreador to a man. Sally Donovan is in attendance as well, without Anderson for once, and she doesn’t look happy about it. And there, at the far end of the hall, framed by the white expanses of marble wall, stand Mycroft and Lestrade, heads bent together in conversation. Between them and the rest of the gathering, John notes various small groups of Tremere. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who didn’t already know, but those supposedly casual groups of chattering attendants, who just happen to be blocking the prince and the regent off from prying listeners, are all reasonably high ranked Tremere, whose first loyalty is to Lestrade, not the clan.

John isn’t bothered that he’s standing by himself in the shadow of a pillar. Sherlock has obviously vanished off to go do whatever it is that he feels that he needs to do. John doesn’t mind waiting. If he gets bored he’ll just leave an impression of his departure in the stones and Sherlock will be suitably informed whenever he does come looking for John. Being able to warp flesh and bone, steel and stone, as the saying goes, has proved to be tremendously useful, and not just for the obvious reasons. Since Sherlock can read the impressions left behind on objects and wipe them clean as he chooses, leaving each other messages through stone and soil has proven to be far more efficient than sending texts these days. John presses the flat of a hand against the pillar and feels the air shiver around him. Looking down, he notes that his shadow has changed and now presents the silhouette of Mycroft, who beckons to him with a finger.

Crossing the room, John finds a certain degree of amusement in the way that the crowds part of him. They know he is Tzimisce, and that he is, depending on who you listen to, either the slave or lover of the Tremere regent, or holds the prince’s brother in thrall, or is Sherlock’s pawn. The rumours are all far too extreme to describe any of it really. John has most certainly drunk Sherlock’s blood but not often, and certainly not as frequently as Mycroft, who seems fairly addicted to it these days. Of course Mycroft also drinks fae vitae fairly regularly too but that doesn’t make it sound like some perverse manipulation on Sherlock’s part, so that rarely tends to get mentioned. John’s drunk Lestrade’s blood too, more frequently, but then he also tends to bury himself, naked, in the Tremere casting circle in their chantry when he goes to sleep. He doesn’t really need to sleep naked but there’s a certain amusement to be had when the next unfortunate neonate happens to be nearby when he climbs out of the earth.

Reaching the massed Tremere, he’s joined by Sherlock who takes his arm, as they move forward. The Tremere part obligingly, many bowling their heads slightly as they pass. It’s all part of the pageant of course. The theatrics that come with the role.

“John. How lovely to see you here.”

John takes Mycroft’s hand in his own, pressing a kiss to the back, eyes on Mycroft as he does so. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Lestrade fight down the urge to roll his eyes. Sherlock, on the other hand, only smiles, steps back with a slight bow and moves over to take Lestrade’s arm instead. They move away, mingling with the nearby Tremere.

“My sources tell me that you’ve forbidden attendance of your clan’s conclave.” Mycroft says, offhandedly.  
“When my _clan_ hold a conclave, I’ll go. Not a minute before.”  
Mycroft smiles coldly.  
John sighs.  
“This conclave is so widely advertised that... well. I shouldn’t like to speculate.”  
“You...?”  
“Happy Birthday, my dear.”

Of course it all makes perfect sense now. The troublesome youngsters of his clan will gather like fools and the Tremere will sweep down on them like avenging angels, obliterating their stain from the clan. Lestrade will be commended for his treachery, betraying the independence of Albion for the sake of his clan, and back in the old country, in the perilous Carpathians, the elder Tzimisce will acknowledge the deviousness of one of their own. They’ll tell of John the Seducer, the Fiend who has spread his corruption across three continents, and who, even now, holds the Lasombra prince of Albion in thrall.

**Author's Note:**

> All of this being Old World of Darkness of course.


End file.
